Author Note: OK, I'm sorry it's been so long since an update. School, life, etc, got in the way. Anyway, thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far; they really mean a lot to me.

"In sooth I know not why I am so sad;

It wearies me, you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn"

Merchant of Venice, Act I, Scene I*

My dearest Holmes,

I will never be able to be by your side as I so often was when you read this letter. I can picture you in my mind's eye, in a vision as crisp and pristine as fallen snow, your eyes crinkling at the corners, face unreadable and for all intents and purposes engaged solely in the task of reading what has been put to you. As I can't be there, I will never be able to gauge your reaction at what is written upon these pages in my own hand, and on the other pages that have come before that I have dictated to be delivered to you. Maybe it is better this way. Rest assured these letters will arrive to you in safe hands by way of my solicitor, a man by the name of Mr. Jackson Ely, who is to take charge of the affairs left to him at such a time when I am no longer to manage them.

The thing is old boy, I'm dieing. Consumption is a dreadful thing, and although it is not the most dignified way of ending my life, end it eventually shall. I think I managed to hide my illness from you, all things considering. The knowledge that I succeeded to secrete my condition, even if only partly, from the great Sherlock Holmes is not something that lies lightly upon my heart. I know that the last few months I have seemed distant, staying locked in my rooms or out of the house altogether. I have come to know the streets of London quite well through this constant ritual of going out of Baker Street when weather permitted.

My excuse for these actions to you was that I was often out at the clinic, the practice having become busier what with the fever being more virulent after the bad weather we had endured recently. This lie at least has some element of truth, but most of it is a hasty fabrication of my own thoughts. 'Truth is, I gave up my position at the practice months ago for fear of passing my illness on to my patients, but with you it was far more difficult to distance myself. My fear grew daily that you would somehow catch my disease, infect you so that you would be forced to endure the same suffering. I should think I would rather die a hundred painful deaths rather than have to watch you wrestle with illness as I have. For a while I thought I could hide it from you. I learned to keep seldom in your company and to cough quietly however difficult- until it felt my lungs no longer held the oxygen necessary- so as not to arouse your suspicion. I coped in silence when fever raged upon my brow and in my soul, burning me from the inside, or when chills gripped me and I had to illicit more blankets into my room, sneaking around like a common criminal who has no desire to be discovered in his activities. It was worth you not knowing Holmes, for I could not stand to be a cause of such misery to you. The knowledge of my death is a heavy burden upon my tired shoulders but to allow it to hoist itself like some unnecessary tumour upon others is something I did not want.

I'm surprised I got away with my secrecy for so long, given your sharp eye and quickness of deduction, but as my symptoms worsened it became harder to hide. I managed to hide my thinning stature, and excuse my pallor as overwork, but when you began to notice changes; how I tired easily, the times when I winced due to the pain in my chest, I knew that it wouldn't be long and withdrew deeper into my shell, hoping to spare you some of the eventual pain of my death. Even as I write I know that my end is not long in coming, yet I do not fear it. I've been around death too much in my lifetime, seen smiling old men close their eyes as though in sleep and never awaken again, seen men with so much life suddenly die in stupid preventable accidents. War brings you closer to death and I have long been comfortable with my own morality. There was many times in Afghanistan when I believed my time had come, and I've come to understand how lucky I am to have survived to live another sort of life in your company. I didn't expect my death to be so soon and rather romantically hoped for a quick death while doing my duty at your side, aiding in the capture of a nefarious criminal at the cost of my own life. Silly I know, but rather better then this wasting burden, which creeps in every closer like ephemeral fog, teasing and prolonged.

I shouldn't complain really. I've lived a fruitful life and perhaps have experienced more wonders of this ever-expanding empire then some people ever accomplish in their entire lifetimes. I've seen so many sights in your company, so many strange stories that I have been able to be a part of. One of my greatest achievements in this life has been to know you, old boy. Few get such a privilege and I have no regrets about my life or our friendship. I am proud to be considered your friend, but there are a few things I wish to bring up that I know I will never have the courage to say to you while I'm still breathing. I hope you'll forgive me this, Holmes. I may have known you a long time, but I am still a man, and men are prone to bursts of cowardice and fear as much as anyone else. I know that you always wondered about some things, and probably would have deduced them if I hadn't steadfastly refused to give you any clues as to my reasoning. But now that I have little time, I feel I should let you know some things. Answers to mysteries. The reasons why I never remarried or why I stayed away for a long while before returning to Baker Street. Just little things but I do not want to go to my grave with many secrets.

I loved you Holmes. I'm not sure whether you ever knew or guessed at such a contemptible vice, but it was a secret of such potency I dared not reveal it to anyone. I could barely live with not knowing whether or not you reciprocated my feelings but your rejection would have been far harder to cope with. If you never felt the same, it is of no consequence. I have no kin or kith who are to be shamed by this letter, my sister having moved to America as you are well aware. I have no hold over you, emotional or otherwise and I only ask that, as a final act of friendship, if you do not feel likewise please do not read on, for the contents therein were scribed in the vain and foolish hope you somehow felt half the love in your heart that I felt for you. Burn this letter old boy so that I may be able to retain some dignity.

I always hoped you understood Holmes but I was never as good as reading people as you, and you yourself were always the hardest to understand. I don't know how it managed to happen, how my thread on the loom of fate became so heavily entwined with your own but it just was. I cannot point to an exact date when I began to notice for it was a presence that had always been there, secured from my weak will and unseeing eyes. You helped me see again. Before you, I was an empty lifeless husk of a man, returning from the war with a chronic ache in my leg and a portmanteau that held all my belongings. It is one of the most thankful moments in my existence when an old acquaintance by the name of Stamford directed me to your lodgings when I professed my problem of finding suitable longings for myself. It was then I was introduced to you Holmes. You seemed aloof and conceited when we first moved in together, and we barely spoke aside from mealtimes. There was always something that fascinated me about you, and in time we began to socialize more, perhaps realizing we were both as friendless as each other. It was not long after that I began to be drawn into your intriguing work, aiding you in a matter of some urgency. If I remember rightly, we both nearly died that night, but we returned back to Baker Street with grins of triumph and the promise of a late night tipple.

We became closer from then on, but after a while I began to feel things...experience thoughts no God fearing man should. I noticed little things; how your eyes sparkled, a bolt of light through the grey, how you moved your fingers with alarming dexterity over the violin bridge yet played little of substance left to your own devices, except when I requested a piece or when you were seeking my forgiveness for some trivial matter. You were always too proud to admit your fault directly, but some times you apologised in your own little way; playing favoured pieces of mine, quietly changing, even for a while, from what you had been doing to irate me so. The changes weren't much but they always meant something to me. I could deny you nothing Holmes, and my weakness, the knowledge that you had such control over me, scared me. I was frightened, confused, and in my distraction I reached out for a norm to guide me onto the path of society, to act as a prevention for my vice of self-destruction. You may have had your drugs old boy, seven-percent solution to greet you and a boxing ring to vent your anger upon, but I had love, a more efficacious contagion altogether.

My desperate hands one day found Mary. I suppose I loved her in my own little way, but not the way I was meant to. She was kind and compassionate, full of a love of life and a loyal devotion to her fiancée befitting that of a future wife. She was a safe choice. But she wasn't you.

I convinced myself that you would be fine, that you had Irene to douse your affections upon. But you were unhappy at the prospect of me wedding Mary and leaving Baker Street so that I could no longer be tempted of a life I could never allow myself to have, and Irene's shining presence again returned to the ether like an incorporeal wisp of smoke. I'm not sure if you loved her or not. She was a curiosity, a puzzle for you to attempt to understand, but whether or not the puzzle opened up some real affection I'll never know.

I never intended to hurt you Sherlock. I was not so blind to the affects of my absence upon you and your health, and my leaving hurt both of us. The amount of times I was angry with you for sabotaging my relationship was anger for a different reason. I wanted you to see that this was for the best, that if I was removed from your presence you may have had a chance at finding someone new, someone acceptable, and I may have been able to forget about you. Unfortunately, such things are never as easy as that, and it hurt me down to the marrow of my bones to see you distressed so. After Mary had left, I therefore promised myself that I would never leave your side on account of a woman again. The company of womenfolk has never much interested me compared with the extent of regard I have for your conversation. But I needed to consider the path I had chosen, which was why I stayed away. I needed to consider the consequences of what I had chosen, needed to consider it carefully. I knew too well the punishment if I was found out to possess such ungodly feelings, and I knew I could never let you know of my attraction to you, for the same reasons.

In the end I returned, disregarding any concern for my welfare or the punishment for my sins in the pursuit of being by your side. If there is a hell, I am surely destined there, but in my heart I cannot believe in a God who punishes those who do no wrong but love the wrong person. The Church is flawed by the contempts of man, and if such a God exists- I know you have no such belief, Holmes- I find it hard to believe I am to be eternally damned for loving you.

There are times when I wished you to have knowledge of the emotions I harboured, but I am grateful enough to have lived a life by your side in whatever capacity, be it friend or lover. I only want you to know this, so there can be no challenge to my testimony: I loved you Sherlock. If it had been in another time and place we may have had a chance of something, but even in my natural standing I was happy with you by my side. You made me the man that sits writing this letter now; you completed me when no one else could. Such as the seven-percent was your addiction, you truly were mine, and that was never a bad thing.

I am glad to have been called your friend, and in the end that is all I ever wanted.

Live a good life, Sherlock Holmes. For my sake.

With love and my fondest wishes

Your Watson

---Thoughts??